Because there's more to it than simple hatred.


He is my everything:

He is all that I have left.

Stupid, foolish child,

lying there on the bed

in the hospital wing

—Again—

his birds-nest of hair

pressed against a blank

pillow while it refuses to obscure

that awful scar, that ever-visible

reminder of how I have failed,

how I have sinned, how I have

Died, and I wonder, Why do I

bother? But I know the answer,

I know the reason: they stare unceasingly

at me, even when the idiot brat's

eyelids cover them from ordinary view,

they are so penetrating that in his

presence I feel almost as if

She is there, hidden, trapped,

and even without Her eyes glaring

at me with his customary hatred,

even while he lies there unconscious

appearing to all as no less than

his father's very clone, I see Her eyes.

I hate how my heart stops beating

every time he nearly dies.

I hate that he hates me.

I hate that I love him.

He is all that I have left.

He is my everything.